


Halfway

by PengyChan



Series: Heaven and Earth [4]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Backstory, Foreshadowing, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: Imelda was a force of nature. Ernesto had charisma. They had contrasting views on most things, and Héctor quickly found himself caught halfway.[“What’s the point of writing a song no one’s going to listen?”]





	Halfway

**Author's Note:**

> This picks up right after the end of the previous fic in the series, but I tried to include enough details to make it readable on its own.

They never really told the rest of the town what had happened in the mountains.

Truth be told, Héctor was relieved when Imelda suggested coming up with a convincing story during the ride back to Santa Cecilia. He hadn’t directly done anything that had resulted in those soldiers’ deaths: it had been Imelda to plan out the explosion, and Ernesto had been the executioner. Still, he had let it happen, hating the idea but knowing that it was either that or seeing those men return to Santa Cecilia to find them.

“We did what we had to,” Ernesto had said when he’d caught him looking back, and Héctor knew that he had a point. He knew that nobody in town would hold it against them. Still, a part of him feared that his family would never quite look at him the same way if they’d known. Yes, he definitely agreed with Imelda’s idea of coming up with a different story.

Ernesto, on the other hand, had been harder to convince. He’d always been a bit of… no, scratch that, he was the biggest show-off Héctor had ever known. Of course he was itching to tell everybody back home what they had done, in great detail and probably with some embellishments to boot. In the end, however, Imelda had argued it simply wouldn’t be safe.

“Word goes around, and eventually leaks out even of the most tight-knit villages. Trust me, I know - that’s how they got my father and his men,” Imelda had said. “If more soldiers hear about this, Santa Cecilia will never be safe, and us least of all. They could do a lot worse than burning your house down next time.”

“And you wouldn’t want something to happen to that pretty face, would you?” Héctor had piped in in mock horror, riding next to him. “They could ruin your _eyebrows,_ Ernestito! What would you be without your eyebrows?”

Ernesto snorted. “Oh, thank you very much,” he muttered, slapping him in the arm before reaching into the side bag of his horse’s saddle. There was a bottle of tequila in it, a leftover from what had been taken from his house. He opened it and held up the bottle to him as though to toast. “I’m starting to think I need new friends,” he added with a dramatic sigh, and took a swig.

“Possibly your own age,” Imelda remarked, and the next moment Ernesto spat out the tequila, coughing.

“Oooooh, ow,” Héctor snickered, just as Ernesto’s cough began turning into a somewhat wheezing laugh.

“Hahaha, ouch! This one stung,” he snickered, and held the bottle over to her. “Point taken. I won’t argue again. Can I give this as a peace offering?” he asked, making her chuckle.

“It might do,” she replied. She took the bottle, but didn’t drink from it and put the cap back on. “Let’s come up with a convincing story first, though. Then we’ll drink to that.”

They spent a good chunk of the ride thinking up a story to tell - at least when Ernesto wasn’t busy standing on the saddle and playing his guitar on the trotting horse just to show he could do it. They went over details time and time again to make sure they all told the same tale, from that day to their graves - or, Imelda had said with a sharp smile, until the day Revolution squashed the tyrants in power and it would be safe for them to tell what had truly happened.

“All right, so they took you to the mountains, and you had camped for the night when…?”

“A bunch of men attacked. Revolutionaries, maybe, but it was dark and I couldn’t see much,” Ernesto replied. “They were shooting from above. I escaped by taking my horse and turning back the way we had come. I had just left the clearing when I heard the explosion. I guessed the soldiers were caught in it, and kept going.”

“Good. Héctor?”

“We had gone after them to get Ernesto back but never got within sight of the soldiers,” Héctor replied without missing a beat. “We heard the explosion from some distance away, and soon afterwards Ernesto came riding from the path ahead. We turned our horses and--”

“Wait, wait, wait a minute!” Ernesto stopped him. “How would you explain the horse you’re riding now, then?”

“Oh. Right,” Héctor muttered, looking down at the horse he’d taken from the soldiers. It was a rather tame animal with a dusty brown coat, and it looked even more unremarkable next to the blinding white of Ernesto’s horse and the midnight black of Imelda’s one. He supposed they could release it, but truth be told he had grown to like it. “Maybe… er…”

“It followed Evaristo down the path, and we took it,” Imelda supplied, causing Ernesto to raise an eyebrow.

“It’s Ernesto and you know it. You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Yes. That’s for stepping on my foot back there.”

“It happened only once!” Ernesto protested, but she entirely ignored him to turn to Héctor. “So, how about that? It would explain the horse.”

Héctor immediately nodded, reaching to stroke the horse’s neck. “Yes, that sounds good,” he said, and glanced at Ernesto, who nodded.

“Right. So I rode off, some soldier’s horse followed me, and I met you on the same path… oh, what about the rifles you took?”

“We found them in the saddle bags of the horse we found.”

“Yes, good one. So Héctor took the extra horse, and we rode right back to Santa Cecilia. If we’ve got to,” Ernesto finished with a shrug. “My old man is going to be even more insufferable when a messed up shoulder.”

The comment caused Imelda to frown, tilting her head on one side. “Why, where would you rather go?”

“Anywhere but there, to be honest,” he said, and turned to glance at the horizon, where the sun was still rising, with a frown on his face - only to turn back after a few moments. “Once the Revolution is over, one way or another,” he added, some bitterness showing in his voice. It was not a surprise: Héctor knew he’d wanted to leave the town for a long time, and the only thing keeping him from doing so were the dangers of a country in turmoil. He wanted to make music to share with the world, not to risk his neck.

 _But it will be over, sooner or later, and then we’ll go,_ Héctor thought. _I promised him. Wherever we go, we go together and we’ll make music people will sing for years to come._

“Well, Santa Cecilia is where you ought to be right now,” Imelda spoke up, her voice suddenly cold, and he frowned.

“What’s that about? I just said--”

“I know what you said,”  Imelda snapped, turning the horse to face him fully, and Ernesto reared back, caught by surprise. “What you forgot to do is to think! Your mother and father were desperate,” she added, her voice seething with fury.

Ernesto began to scowl back. “Points for them. I got into that mess to save their hides--”

“And he was shot to protect my mother,” Imelda cut him off, her voice a snarl, and for a moment Héctor seriously worried she might attack him. “He could have died! Your mother kept screaming, your house was burned--”

“You _know_ I was there, right?” Ernesto cut her off, anger showing in his voice as well. “I saw it happening, and at gunpoint. I need no reminders.”

And with that he was off before Héctor could think of anything to say, spurring his horse ahead, not sparing a glance in his direction. Héctor almost spurred his own horse to go after him, but hesitated, and turned to Imelda instead. He had been on the receiving end of Ernesto’s bad moods enough times to know he wanted to avoid that, and plus… well, what she had just said to him just didn’t seem fair to him. “What was that about? He only said--”

“You’d expect him to want to see his family, wouldn’t you?” she cut him off. “Don’t _you_ want to be home as soon as possible with your parents?”

Héctor shifted a bit uncomfortably, suddenly reminded that Imelda’s father was dead… and that she’d mentioned it in front of Ernesto, too. “Well, yes, but--”

“Me, too. There were moments last night when I thought I would never see my mother and brothers again,” she cut him off again. “I can’t wait to be with them, even though I know they were not harmed, and the first thing _he_ says is that is father his going to be insufferable? That he wants to go away?”

“That… that’s not what he meant!” Héctor protested. “He just doesn’t like being stuck in Santa Cecilia much. But that doesn’t mean--”

“He didn’t even _ask_ about his parents. Like he doesn’t care.”

“But he did! He asked me last night, when you went to fetch your horse!” Héctor retorted, and that did cause her to hesitate, so he pressed on. “You don’t know him, but I do. He doesn’t really get along with his papá, because… most people don’t, old Estéban was never all right again after an accident in the mine. But Ernesto cares about him. Honest. He just… we all had a bad night. Him especially. That was unfair. ”

For a few moments Imelda stared at him, and Héctor feared she’d snap at him, too. Then finally, she sighed. “I really hope you’re right, because I’ll be _so_ mad if I find out you made me apologize for nothing,” she said, and kicked her horse’s flanks to go after Ernesto, who was trotting some distance ahead. Héctor followed, but he kept himself some distance away; he hoped no argument would break out, because something in the back of his mind told him he _didn’t_ want to be caught in the middle of one, not between those two… but of course he would get there to try sort things out if it was needed. Somehow.

To his utter relief, he didn’t need to play the peacemaker. He saw them talking while riding side by side, the trotting slowing down to a walk, and then Imelda held out something - the bottle of tequila. Ernesto laughed, that easy laugh of his everybody liked, and took it. Héctor breathed out a sigh of relief, and spurred his horse to reach them just as Ernesto took a swig from the bottle. He gulped it down, turned to him and grinned.

“Have some, chamaco! Drinking to our little secret!”

For a moment, Héctor hesitated. He’d never drunk tequila before; he wasn’t supposed to drink at all. His papá had let him try some beer a few months earlier, when he’d turned thirteen, and he’d liked it - but he’d had no more than a few sips, and his mother would probably flip if she found out. Imelda noticed his hesitation, and frowned.

“I think he’s too young for tequila,” she said, and suddenly Héctor could have sworn his face was on fire with embarrassment. He was used to being treated and referred to as a kid - Ernesto did all the time, because to be fair he _was_ a kid and Ernesto was four years older than him - but Héctor found he didn’t like it _at all_ coming from Imelda. He wasn’t just a little kid, and hadn’t helped with those soldiers last night? Of course he had! That was grown-up stuff! She should take him seriously!

“No! I’m not-- I’m just a year younger than you!” he protested, and snatched the bottle from Ernesto’s hand. He had to stand on the stirrups to reach it. “Give it here!”

“Hey, easy the--” Ernesto warned, but Héctor didn’t listen: he just brought the bottle to his lips and gulped down some tequila. It felt like liquid fire down his throat and into his stomach, but at that point he’d die before he showed any sort of disgust, and forced himself to keep it down. He pulled back the bottle after another generous gulp and looked back at Ernesto and Imelda to see that they were both staring at him. He looked rather concerned, while she had raised an eyebrow in what he wanted to think was admiration but that was more likely mild surprise. He grinned at her, the burning sensation in his stomach and throat already turning into something more bearable, a pleasant sort of warmth.

“See? I can take it! Salud!” Héctor exclaimed, emboldened and suddenly euphoric, and brought the bottle to his lips again - only that he didn’t get to drink more, because Ernesto moved his horse forward and snatched it from his hand the next moment, leaving him to stupidly blink at his empty hand for a couple of moments before his brain caught up. When it did, he scowled.

“Hey! Give it back!” he protested, standing on the stirrups and trying to take it again, but Ernesto pulled back.

“Nope. You had enough,” he said, easily holding the bottle out of his reach. “If you get yourself alcohol poisoning I will _not_ be the one to drag your body back home and break the news to your family, chamaco. Haha! Look at you! All red-nosed already!”

“Wha-- my nose is not red!”

“It is, you just can’t see it. Which is odd, actually. It’s big enough to block your line of sight.”

“My nose is not big!”

“Hu-uh. Sure.”

“W-well, your chin is bigger than a… a… than something big! I… give back… stop moving!”

“But I’m not mov-- oh. Oooh, mierda. Drunk already, lightweight?”

Grasping the horse’s neck so that he wouldn’t fall - why did it all keep shifting? Was the sun playing tricks on him? - Héctor shook his head. “Naaah! I’m okay!”

“You’re hammered. You look like my old man after--” Ernesto went on, only to trail off when Imelda let out a sigh and snatched the bottle from his hand in turn.

“I think you both had enough,” she said, and brought it to her lips to take a swig. No, wait, that wasn’t just a-- was she-- wait, was she just drinking it _all_ down?

Slightly unsure that his eyes were playing tricks on him - he was feeling a bit tipsy, to be fair - Héctor snuck as glance at Ernesto, and the fact he was also staring at Imelda with his mouth hanging open reassured him that he was seeing what he was seeing, too. He turned his gaze back to Imelda just as she finished the tequila, threw the bottle on the ground with a sound of shattering glass that made them both recoil, and grasped her horse’s mane again.

“There. Now let’s get going. We’ll be home at sundown at this rate,” she said, sounding all the world like she’d just drunk a glass of fresh water, and rode off towards Santa Cecilia, dark hair bouncing on her shoulders. His head wonderfully light, Héctor found himself staring at her with a widening smile.

“Isn’t she am… amash… amazing?” he slurred, and tried to stand on the stirrups, only to slip and sway on one side; Ernesto reaching to steady him was the only thing that spared him a painful meeting with the ground.

“You are never drinking on my watch again, chamaco. Not until you can hold it, at least,” he informed him before reaching to take the reins of Héctor’s horse. “Hold onto the pommel, you walking disaster. I should have known this was a bad idea.”

“You are a bad idea,” Héctor mumbled, causing Ernesto to sigh.

“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t leave you to wander in circles until you sober up.”

“I came to sh-- shu-- save you.”

“You almost got all three of us killed, really. I had everything under control. Try again.”

Héctor gave him a grin so wide that his cheeks hurt, but he hardly cared. “I am your _beeeeest_ friend and you can’t be without me?”

A laugh. “Well, you got me there.”

“Ha-ah! I knew it! You _need_ me, Ernestito, Tito, mi amigo!”

“... I think I’ll just pretend I didn’t just hear that. And keep holding on that pommel, we’re speeding up now. I’d like to be home before my hair turns gray, or my mother has a heart attack, or both.”

Ernesto spurred both horses into trotting, and Héctor found he was able to just about stay on the saddle. They went slower than Imelda did, but she never sped up too much and Héctor got to watch her riding from afar, so he didn’t feel like complaining at all.

“I’m going to write a song about last night,” he muttered after a time, causing Ernesto to glance at him over his shoulder.

“We agreed to never tell anybody what really happened, remember?”

“We’re not going to play it for anybody else.”

Ernesto scoffed. “What’s the point of writing a song no one’s going to listen?” he asked with a dismissive shrug, and usually that would have been enough to cool Héctor’s enthusiasm. But now he glanced ahead, where Imelda was riding like the vision from a dream, and grinned again.

_Imelda is gonna listen. She said she likes my songs._

“It’s gonna be just for the three of us. Like, a secret song,” he said. “And besides, when this is all over with, we may be able to tell everybody what really happened and we’ll need to have a song ready, right?” he added, and that definitely got Ernesto’s approval.

“That’s… not a bad idea. Actually, it’s good! A good idea! Coming from you!” he exclaimed with a fake, shocked gasp. Héctor pretended to throw a punch at him, which almost threw him off balance.

“All my ideas are good ideas,” he muttered, ignoring the resulting snicker, and that was the last he spoke for a while. He was too busy thinking up the words and melody, trying to keep them in mind until he could sit down and write - and, most of all, trying not to lose sight of Imelda for too long.

Maybe it was the tequila, but focusing on her made it a lot easier to make music in his head.


End file.
